


Foster the Light

by waitingtobelit



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Non-Graphic Violence, Philosophy, Politics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-09
Updated: 2013-03-09
Packaged: 2017-12-04 17:38:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,009
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/713308
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/waitingtobelit/pseuds/waitingtobelit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After a disastrous first meeting, Enjolras keeps running into Marius until they both realize they have more in common than they originally thought.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Foster the Light

**Author's Note:**

> I’ve always loved Marius and Enjolras as characters since I first got into Les Miserables months ago and I really loved their relationship in the 2012 movie. I’ve been meaning to write a fic like this for a long time and I finally found inspiration for it. Based in movieverse with some details from the novel thrown in. 
> 
> Title comes from the Dylan Thomas poem of the same name.
> 
> Disclaimer: I own nothing to do with Les Miserables. This was written purely for recreational purposes only.

  The hazy light of dusk casts the streets of Paris in an ochre glow, giving life to shadows and the stirrings of criminal ideals as the sun sets. Enjolras stalks out of the Café Musain, briefly acknowledging the oncoming evening as he makes his way back to his apartment. The fading light renders his face into even more of a stony mask than usual, illuminating the carved frown and intensity of his blue eyes. He keeps a steady pace though his gait is quicker and he avoids making eye contact with any passer-by.

  His nostrils begin to flare the more he recalls that unfortunate encounter with Courfeyrac’s lawyer friend, Pontmercy, however. The idiot, besotted with Bonapartist tendencies and a ridiculous flare for the dramatic. He wonders what sensible Courfeyrac sees in the dolt.

  Only after parsing Rousseau’s _Discourse on the Origin and Basis of Inequality Among Men_ for more material in inspiring his fellow students in their own revolution does his frown lessen.

\---

  As Enjolras walks into the Café Musain the next afternoon, he almost misses the would-be lawyer hunched over in the furthest corner - his brown jacket blends in perfectly with the wall to his left. But a flash of movement, the man’s hand scribbling away at some parchment, draws his attention to the rather large tome next to an unfortunately familiar, freckled face.

  He scoffs to himself as he wonders what could possibly bring Marius back so soon after their argument yesterday. He approaches his table with the intention of asking just that when the sight of the student halts him.

  Marius’ pale complexion is almost translucent in the late afternoon light. A steady sheen of sweat heightens the sheer amount of freckles on his flushed face. His eyes, cast downward, constantly blink as one hand trembles around the quill and the other runs through his disheveled, auburn hair. Enjolras knows too well the look of a man long kept from sleep, and he wonders what could possibly keep someone with so much lack of focus up all night.

  Marius, oblivious to this intense scrutiny, continues his scribbling while muttering what sounds like German under his breath. Enjolras recalls Courfeyrac mentioning that his roommate picked up both German and English as languages to find work as a translator. He wonders at the length of time the man has spent at that table and why he would even need work to begin with. In spite of this and their obvious political differences, he finds himself walking over to Marius.

 The man remains unaware until right at the moment Enjolras reaches the outer edge of the table.

  “Oh!” He exhales more than exclaims. His flushed face turns even more scarlet as he drops his quill in shock, eyes widening to the point where he resembles a startled deer. “I um. I didn’t think. Courfeyrac said there was no meeting tonight so I just assumed…”

  “What is it that you are working on?” Enjolras, though thoroughly amused by the man’s fumbling with words, cuts him short as he gestures to the open book on the table. He surprises himself by expressing genuine interest.

   Marius looks for a moment like he might willingly shove himself into the wall in order to escape. He runs his hand through his hair and crushes the locks in his grasp as he rocks back in his seat and avoids meeting Enjolras’ gaze. Enjolras wonders from both this meeting now and their argument yesterday as to Marius’ exact amount of social interaction.

  “Just some Goethe I need to finish by tonight,” he says, an edge to his voice as though he suddenly remembers yesterday.

  He scoffs. “Oh but of course. Poetry comes before liberty of the people. How careless of me to forget.”

  Marius tenses, his hand falling out of his hair as he stares directly at Enjolras. Embers burn in the green of his eyes as he rises from his seat and slams the book shut. He shoves every one of his belongings from the table into his own arms and makes to leave, but not before stopping directly in front of Enjolras. He raises himself up like an enraged cat, and Enjolras fights to keep from showing any kind of amusement at all at the sight.

  “Actually,” he hisses, practically choking his items hugged to his chest, “I need to finish so that I might pay my share of rent.”

  Without another word, he storms past him and out of the café.

\---

  The following afterroon finds Enjolras at the front door of 16 Rue de la Verrerie, arms resting at his chest as he makes to knock. The sun above dazzles to the point of blinding, bathing all the filth and cracked buildings, the dirty faces of youths running in the street and the tired figures of the mothers chasing after them in light so as to soften the poverty that runs rampant throughout. The warmth of a day desperate to cling to summer even as autumn approaches radiates within him. He brushes a stray curl out of his face and finds the tendril heavy with sweat. The air is ripe with inevitable revolution; his body burns with it.  

Still, sometimes revolution requires waiting. Enjolras likes to think of himself as patient. Today, he anticipates the world heavily testing his resolve with what he’s about to do.

  “Hello, can I help y - ” Marius opens the door; his mouth opens in shock. His hair is still disheveled and if possible, his pallor has increased further to the point where he resembles the haggard ghost of a despaired poet. “Oh, Courfeyrac is out. I don’t know when he’ll be back.”

 His cold greeting does not surprise Enjolras, nor prevent him from leaning into the doorway so that Marius cannot shut the door in his face. He finds himself somehow moved by this raggedy dandy; he refuses to leave until he figures out why.

  “I’m not here to see Courfeyrac.” He says, focusing on Marius and the way he clenches one fist at his side and holds the other in his hair. A curious habit about which he finds himself fascinated. “I came to speak with you.”

  “Well, what do you want then?” Marius inquires flatly, remaining where he stands.

  “I came to apologize,” Enjolras explains, raising his arms in a peace offering. “I assumed you did not work for a living, and that was wrong of me, I know. I am sorry.”

  Marius stares at him, eyes flickering between Enjolras and the world outside. He begins to chew on his lip as though struggling with an internal debate.

 “My grandfather is rich, it is true.” He begins, keeping his eyes on a corner of the room hidden from view as his soft voice turns into steel with each word spoken. “But he is not. I. I haven’t spoken to him in months. I do not accept any money that I do not earn from my work. I am trying to study law and trying to do some good in the world. So my politics might not align with yours but believe me, I am trying. I am trying to do right.”

  Marius becomes more flustered the longer he speaks, a blush sparking up underneath his freckles and his hands flailing about as he makes his stand. The kindling Enjolras caught a glance of the other day returns even brighter than before. Today, he recognizes the spark for what it is: conviction.

  Enjolras regards the other man with the barest traces of respect in his voice.

  “May I come in?”

\--- 

    They talk for hours. Enjolras, armed now with a better understanding of Marius’ circumstances, listens with a more sympathetic ear as the other man relates his history with his grandfather. He winces to learn that the other man only reached his father mere moments after his death after a life time of misconceptions. The longer he talks, the more often he runs his hand through his hair and plays with the hem of his jacket. He sometimes stumbles over his words like a drunken man fumbles over limbs, making Enjolras certain of his lack of social graces. In spite of living with Courfeyrac, Marius seems to be a rather lonely soul.

  Enjolras finds in Marius the manipulation of the people by the aristocracy and once more engages with the fellow in politics. Through the other man’s fractured relationships, Enjolras finds the means to steer his mind towards a more just political thought.

  This time Marius also listens. This time he does not respond with his natural tendency towards abrasive impulse, but rather allows Enjolras to educate him through various pamphlets and discussions of Robespierre and Rousseau.

  “The government ought to follow the will of the people.”

  “And the will of the people has to be decided upon by the people in unison?”

  “Yes.”

   “What if an individual’s beliefs go against the will of the people?”

    “Then they must adhere so that they comply with the will of the people.”

    “But what if the individual truly believes the people are wrong? Do his own thoughts count for nothing?”

    “Marius.”

    “What?”

    “Turn to this page here, Rousseau explains it better than I can.”

   Of course, they still hit the occasional snag or two. One being the son of revolution, bearing the weight of liberty on his shoulders as the other struggles to define his place in the world.

     Yet, much to Enjolras’ surprise, as Marius comes into his own as a republican free of Bonapartist influence, he finds himself genuinely enjoying the other man’s company.

\---

    Marius gradually immerses into the political meetings at the Café Musain after that. He attends with Courfeyrac and engages with Combeferre in thoughtful discussions. He drinks with Joly and Grantaire, laughs at their jokes, and talks poetry with Jehan. (Sometimes Enjolras cannot keep from rolling his eyes at how romantic the pair of them can become over Keats. They mean well, but God help them both if he has to overhear one more maudlin discussion over the merits of the nightingale’s song.) He watches Bahorel slam bottle after bottle down on the table and occasionally violently upturn a chair with the ease of Goliath. He listens to Bossuet relay tales of his woeful luck and replies with tales of his own.

  When he volunteers to hand out pamphlets with Feuilly for the first time, Enjolras can barely contain his grin.

\---

   They grow closer as the months grow colder and autumn fades into winter. Enjolras joins Courfeyrac in reminding Marius to eat when he appears at meetings pale and cheekbones standing out even more stark than usual. Marius reminds Enjolras to breathe when he becomes too enamored with his own words. When he finds Marius hunched over books directly after meetings Enjolras sits with him so he doesn’t remain in the café all night.

  “I’ve only got ten more lines to go, Enjolras. I’m fine,” Marius yawns as he blinks furiously, his quill marking the page with a careless grace that proves just the opposite.

  “It can wait until morning.” He replies, placing his hand directly on the thinner man’s wrist so as to halt his progress. “You don’t sleep enough as it is.”

  “I’m perfectly capable of – of-” Marius doesn’t get the chance to finish his sentence as his head descends almost directly on Enjolras’ arm.

   He sighs as he shakes his friend into a half-way waking state before all but dragging him back to his apartment and laying him gently down onto his mattress.

\---

    Marius translating for them proves to be of an enormous help to their numbers. They pass out pamphlets in English and German as well as French now; Marius speaks to the immigrants while Enjolras preaches to the masses. Attendance at their meetings, while not quite doubling, certainly does surge. January may be cold, wet, and dreary around them but Enjolras takes comfort in the embers sparking against the pavement of the Paris streets.

\--- 

   “…You trust me with a weapon?”

   Standing in the darkest alleyway just behind the Café Musain where even the street lamps glow cannot reach them, Enjolras, Marius, and Combeferre all stand in various positions against the wall, a collection of guns wrapped in a spare jacket at Enjolras’ feet. Enjolras raises an eyebrow at the question while Combeferre snorts.

   In all honesty, Marius raises a valid concern. The man barely knows how to dress himself (in Courfeyrac’s borrowed clothes, no less), and he spends too much of his time with his nose buried in books. Nonetheless, Enjolras needs him to be able to defend himself as well as the people and the liberty they aim for, so, with only slight reluctance, he hands the other man a rifle.

  “Desperate times call for desperate measures,” he grins and Marius stares at him for a moment before grinning back.

  “I’m not going to be that terrible. I may even be the best shot of all, and you’ll never see me coming.” Enjolras snorts and even Marius lets out a childish giggle.

  “Let us hope so. But we’re only practicing how to hold a gun today. We need to be more…discreet when actually firing rounds.”

   Such a small moment and yet Enjolras feels it burn alongside the light of revolution in his veins. Though it flickers like candlelight next to the wildfire of his political beliefs, it provides just as much warmth in the dark.

   He moves next to Marius and helps adjust the weapon in his hands.

  “So. This is how to properly hold it…”

   Half an hour later and Marius is leaning against the wall pressing a cooled cloth to his nose where he hit himself with the butt of the rifle. He’s bleeding but Combeferre assures them that it is nothing to worry about so long as Marius keeps pressure on the injury. Enjolras stands next to him with a steadying hand on the other man’s shoulder while Combeferre gathers up the guns.

  He supposes that Marius obtaining only a bloody nose counts as a success.

\---

   The next evening, the meeting ends when Grantaire makes a grand, belligerent statement about how every goal they strive for amounts to nothing in the end. He clutches a wine bottle in his right hand and his left rests defiantly on his hip to match the nihilism in his eyes. His tone is such that Enjolras cannot ignore him and so he engages in an argument with the cynic, provoked by the careless way he holds both his alcohol and his beliefs.

  Out of the corner of his eye he catches Marius leaving with another student he’s perhaps talked to once before but he makes nothing of it, much too caught up in attempting to reason with Grantaire.

   Fifteen minutes later, he stalks down the second floor, away from both Grantaire and the rest of their group that still remains in discussion, nostrils flaring and blond curls shaking in time with his steps. He opens the door rougher than necessary, trying not to permit Grantaire’s skepticism to go to his brain.

  “Please, I have translations to do at home and it is late.” Marius’ voice sounds pleading and strained. “Please leave me alone.” Enjolras pauses, listening.

  The stranger, a man lankier and more pallid than even Marius, looms above the shorter man, his black jacket and matching top hat rendering him even more of a shadow in the darkness. Though thin, he radiates just enough arrogance to make him dangerous. He wears a smile sharper than the back alleys of Paris after midnight as he moves so that Marius is backed against the wall. Enjolras takes in that smile and the way he saunters rather than walks and he strides over, nostrils flaring even more so than before.

  “How is it that those revolutionaries let you in their group, you who have no courage of your own?” The stranger asks, his manners as careless as the way he prevents Marius from escaping. “You are pretty, but you are still a pathetic cow - ”

  He never gets the chance to finish. In less than a minute, Enjolras has him roughly by his collar and spun around. His fist smashes into the other man’s face, the crunching of flesh clashing with bone drowning out the shouting from the small group of people gathered around the scene. Red flies out into black as the stranger falls to the ground and remains there, shouting obscenities as he curls in on himself and clutches his nose.

  He turns to find Marius all but clinging to the wall opposite the café for support. Wordlessly, he walks over to him and allows him to lean on him as he leads him away from the crowd. Enjolras brings him back to his own apartment, closer to the café than Courfeyrac’s, to sleep it off.

\---

    One week later, with icy winds blowing constantly in their faces, the police arrive with the same force as the temperature, all cold gusto as they hurl threats and insults at the students as though they might actually listen. Marius stands by Enjolras’ side as they scream right back at the officers, pamphlets in hand as they throw their fists to the winds in the name of liberty.

  “Traitors!”

  “Cowards!”

  “Vive le France!”

   “Liberty for all!”

    Their words mingle to become indistinguishable from those they protest against. Collectively, their raised voices ring out like hymns, and he feels his spirit soar on the melodies. Enjolras finds himself so lost in the religion of the people that he only just registers the sound of gunfire as Marius puts himself between his exposed body and the police before dragging him off to safety.

\---

   That evening, their group sits together and recuperates. Leftover, infectious delirium from that afternoon’s activities spreads throughout the room like pipe smoke. Joly and Combeferre tend to the injured while the rest find warmth in their drinks and each other’s company. Enjolras sits next to Marius in companionable silence. He meets his gaze and smiles as that previous conviction ignites into full-blown fervor.


End file.
